House on Fire
by wayward-river
Summary: They're opposites in manner and in thought, coming together in a way she can't explain; she can only compare it to watching a house burn down, all the way to its foundations. Rated M for sexual themes. Byakuya/Yoruichi.


**Warning: This is rated M for a reason. Contains adult themes and mild descriptions of sex, but not explicit enough to be NC-17 rated. You can see the NC-17 version on .**

Also, please remember that a favorite =/= a review, and I really don't care about your ships. Leave your opinion about your ships out of the review, please, and thank you.

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><p>The slap she'd given him earlier still stings.<p>

"Fuck you," she whispers, clutching his shoulders, nails raking. Byakuya dips his head to run his lips up and down her neck, teeth biting, wet and warm. Her hands move to grip the base of his skull, fingers tearing into his dark hair, her breath warm on his face. Yoruichi's eyes burn like miniature sunsets in the dark.

They cling to each other, out of breath, sweating. Somehow during the skirmish Byakuya has slammed her against a wall. He can't hear anything over the sound of their breathing, doesn't care. Yoruichi licks her swollen lips, fine strands of hair clinging to her dark, flushed cheeks.

She growls like a cat and kisses him again, sucking his lower lip, hands falling down his chest to push aside his uniform. Yoruichi jerks both sleeves away, crumpling the expensive black silk to his waist, hands exploring, scratching, up his abs and chest, across his shoulders.

Byakuya shudders, hot and cold at once, the knot in his stomach growing tighter with desire.

He's panting when they withdraw, and he skims the outline of her ear before speaking softly into it.

"You should speak for yourself, Yoruichi."

She grins, eyelashes lowering, hands jerking past his sash and into his hakama. He sets his jaw, grunting, and Yoruichi grins at him.

"You sure you can back it up?"

Byakuya's gray eyes darken, pupils blown open. The room is lit only by a small oil lamp burning low on its wick. Her chambers are spacious, and whereas Byakuya favors simple elegance, Yoruichi lets her wealth show in every piece of furniture, every carefully selected fusuma and painting. Her bed is large and made of only the finest silk.

Yoruichi fists her hand into the material of his hakama, pulling him toward the bed.

He lets her push him onto his back, the sheets cool against his bare skin. They stare at each other in the darkness, his hands gripping her hips, pulling back the kimono and under things; although she is brash and outgoing, Yoruichi still recognizes the importance of formal dress for a formal meeting.

They had met to discuss marriage, as proposed by their clan elders. Being the heads of their respective clans did not, contrary to popular belief, give them supreme rule over it. The clan elders were to be respected and obeyed. Unfortunately for them, both Byakuya and Yoruichi were stubborn souls, and had fought against their rules in the past; him for love, and she for friendship.

If they were to be truthful, they had agreed to discuss marriage only to smooth the clan elders' ruffled feathers. They never said the discussion had to end in agreement, after all.

Yoruichi laughs, low and feminine, running her hands through his hair, the kenseikan gone. She had knocked them off when their fight began. Even after eleven years since the Winter War and her return to the Seireitei, their encounters are ferocious as ever.

Only recently have they ended, and sometimes began, with sex.

Not making love. Not connecting. Just sex.

Byakuya can't complain; he is a man, when all is said and done, and once he enters the doors of her chamber, he lets himself forget, if only temporarily, about Hisana. Yoruichi is usually the one to initiate it, and she is unpredictable as she is fast – Byakuya never knows what sort of mood she'll be in.

Her fingers continue to curl into his hair, the other hand rubbing up and down his forearm.

He tries to sit up, but she shoves him back down again. Her legs are spread on either side of him, kimono hiking up her waist, elaborate obi askew and halfway undone. The sleeves are falling down, the bright red under kimono stark against her brown skin. He can see the bare flesh of her calves and shoulders, nothing more, and this frustrates him for a reason Byakuya cannot name.

She lets him slide his palms between the folds of her kimono and across her ribs, thumbs dragging along the underside of her full breasts. Her nipples are already hard and sensitive when Byakuya pinches them between two fingers, rubbing them with his thumbs. Her following moan spears him with desire.

Yoruichi doesn't protest as Byakuya sits upright, pulling her into his lap, her arms going about his shoulders.

They kiss again, her hands all over his back, in his hair, his fingers digging into her spine. She writhes and bucks against him, brash and demanding, so unlike Hisana. Whereas Hisana was small and pale-skinned, modest in and out of his bed, Yoruichi is strong and bold, skin like autumn leaves.

She lets him push her back against the futon, her arms above her head, violet hair everywhere. Her grin is catlike and her golden eyes glimmer in the darkness.

"I won't say sorry," he whispers, tugging her clothes away, baring her skin to his eyes and the night.

Yoruichi skims her fingernails against his cheek, threatening. "I never asked you to."

The moon lights up in her eyes when Byakuya slides his hand across her arousal, cupping her with his palm. Her smile is dreamy, so he kisses it away, disliking the softness of it. She groans quietly when he rubs his hand against her, and he does it until she pants, fingers pulling his hair.

Yoruichi challenges him with her eyes, and her tongue flicks out to moisten dry lips. Her smile is full of smoke and embers.

"What, Byakuya? Cat got your tongue?"

She sees a smirk pull his mouth, but it's gone when they kiss. He forces her head back and she wraps her legs around his waist, grinding up against him, her hip bones pushing against his stomach. Byakuya groans into her mouth and pins her hands above her head. Yoruichi lets him do it, though they both know she could easily escape. Her dark skin glimmers with sweat, breath hot on his skin.

There is no foreplay; Byakuya grips her hips and she hisses when he slides into her, all at once.

Yoruichi sighs, Byakuya moans, and they set a familiar pace, fast and hard, rough, impatient. It's not about giving pleasure to the other, or watching as her eyes close, or the way his brows furrow. It's just sex, so those things don't matter. They rarely do.

Yoruichi feels her hands begin to tingle with the grip he has on her wrists. She's sure there will be bruises tomorrow, but can't bring herself to care.

He frees her hands, so Yoruichi scratches his neck, tears her fingers into his hair. He bites her shoulders and whispers nonsense against her neck, inaudible with his moans. Yoruichi calls his name, voice beginning to rise. A familiar heat sparks between them, exploding out. He hisses, and she growls his name. They come together, her head thrown back, his face pressed against her throat.

They pant and sweat drips from their bodies, but neither Byakuya nor Yoruichi pull away. The futon is damp and the blankets have been kicked aside. Outside, insects continue to sing, wind rattling the shoji doors. It begins to rain, but neither notice.

Yoruichi kisses his jaw, smirking into his ear. "I take it this is your way of saying sorry. You can't say it out loud, so you try and compensate with sex. Right?"

Byakuya rises, supporting himself on his elbows. His head dips toward her, hair falling all around them, dark eyes looking into her own.

"Whatever gave you that absurd idea?"

Yoruichi shrugs, running a hand down his chest. Red marks slash across his arms and down his shoulders, fresh marks beginning to form on his neck.

"I don't know, actually. It was just a guess. You're not that great with expressing your feelings, so I thought it was a reasonable assumption."

He grunts and rolls away, sitting up. Dark shadows fall beneath his shoulders and into his spine, across the expanse of his back. She can see every muscle move beneath his skin as he secures his hair back with the kenseikan.

Yoruichi will never admit it aloud, but she loves watching him dress; every movement has purpose and grace. When Yoruichi dresses, she slips and pulls, not caring if there are wrinkles or if her hair is in disarray. They are opposites in manner and in thought, coming together in a way that she can't explain; she can only compare it to watching a house burn down, all the way to its foundation.

Byakuya begins to pull the sash to his hakama together, and she makes a noise of protest. Rising, Yoruichi walks slowly to where he stands, half-hidden in the darkness. Silently, she places her hands upon his own. Yoruichi looks up, and there's softness in his eyes she's never seen before.

Her lips part, voice soft and warm, "let me."

Byakuya's jaw moves slightly, before he wordlessly drops his hands to his sides.

Yoruichi lowers her head to better see. The cloth grain of the silk is soft against her fingers as she wraps the first fold about his waist, leaning in to do so. The top of his uniform is still loose, and she can feel the warmth of his bare skin so near to her own.

She ties the first knot slowly, firmly, before wrapping the other fold and tying it again. She straightens the folds of the white sash before resting her hands against his waist. Resting her head on his shoulder, Yoruichi then runs her palms up his chest, feeling as much skin as she can. Taking the ends of his gi, she tugs the black material closed, pressing the wrinkles away. Beneath her hands, his chest slowly rises and falls.

Yoruichi closes her eyes when one of his hands rests against her nape. His palm is warm and dry, fingers tangled into her hair.

Byakuya's voice is gentle, "thank you, Yoruichi."

They look at each other in the dark. Yoruichi smiles, just a little.

She's the first to pull away, and the air is cold where she once stood. Yoruichi turns her back to him, walking over to the small vanity near the bed they had been in moments before. She picks up a brush and begins to run it through her violet hair. From the reflection in the mirror, her golden eyes are heavy-lidded, unreadable.

"You had better get going, Captain. You'll be late for the meeting tomorrow."

The room is dark, so she can't see his expression; but she doesn't need to. Byakuya's response is curt and tight-lipped, "of course. Have a good evening."

Yoruichi doesn't watch him leave.

Rain drizzles against the rooftop. Frowning, Yoruichi gazes at the rumpled bed sheets, the lamplight throwing it into shadows. Once again, they'll both sleep alone tonight, as they have for the last hundred and fifty years; since Hisana's death, and her betrayal.

She sets the brush down and looks to the lamp, now almost extinguished in oil. It glimmers faintly in the night.

If she could, Yoruichi would burn everything down, but knows she already has.


End file.
